Xanax
by The Child of Time
Summary: How exactly does one go from being the "perfect student" "genius  and a freak " to that girl who's abusing her mother's medications and passing out at clubs? A closer look into the descent of one Natalie Goodman. Slight Natalie/Henry in the future.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: **This is my first attempt at Next to Normal fanfiction. I feel a very strong connection to Natalie for reasons I won't go into here, and the show has truly changed my life, so I figured I'd give this a chance. This will be a chapter story that details Natalie's decline from "perfect student" to "partying druggie".

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Next to Normal. *sigh* Sad, but true.

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Xanax. You looked at the label and read the information on the bottle. May cause drowsiness, dizziness, do not operate machinery or drive until you know how it affects you, blah blah fucking blah... So, it was an anti-anxiety, right? Just what you needed. Granted, it was extended release, because god knows no psychiatrist in their right mind would put your mother on the fast acting anti-anxiety meds, knowing what an emotional roller coaster they can create. Still...and you knew that _she_ wasn't going to be taking the medicines...they shouldn't go to waste...and you _needed_ them, right?

At first, you were in denial about the anxiety. Anxiety was strictly your mother's problem. Anxiety, depression, bipolar disorder, whatever the hell else they had suggested she had, you had lost count after a few yeas of being aware of what it all meant; doctor after doctor would say it was one thing or another, then change their mind, the next doctor would say that the previous doctor had it all wrong... But what stuck in your mind was that everything related to mental illness was equivalent to being crazy. And you would _not_ be crazy. You would not end up like her. You loved her, despite all that she did to hurt you, you _loved_ her so much, but you were terrified of the idea of becoming her. So, you would escape all of this. You'd do so well in school that colleges would beg you to attend, and then you'd get a degree, and a job, and live some place far away from here. Anywhere but here. Somewhere where you weren't the daughter of the crazy lady, you were that successful and brilliant young woman. And it was all going well until high school.

A lot of people feel pressure once they enter high school. It's the time where the courses you take suddenly become extremely important, and college is suddenly so close you can taste the freedom...and the stress. It's when people try shoving an honors course or two onto their schedules to look better, and take test-prep courses and pile on the extracurriculars and volunteer hours and do anything they can to make their applications look great. But you think that saying it was harder for you is completely justified. After all, you had been worrying about these things as soon as you were old enough to understand how the college application process worked. By sixth grade, you had planned out which AP and honors courses you'd be taking. You needed to get everything done- and fast. You needed to graduate early, but do so in a way that looked impressive and not like you were just trying to escape high school (even though you were trying to escape everything) so that colleges wouldn't look at it as a negative thing.

And, so, freshman year marked the beginning of the panic attacks. At first, they weren't that bad. Just the constant "what if?"s racing through your brain and chest pain and feeling completely helpless and horrible. But, really, since you had grown up with a mother who hallucinated your dead brother and had major freak outs in public places that were newspaper worthy, your panic attacks really did seem like _nothing_ in comparison. Chest pain? A little dizziness? Well, you weren't trying to make sandwiches out of Oreos and Pringles yet, so there was nothing to be concerned about.

It was the _yet_ that killed you. You weren't completely crazy _yet_, but it could happen. You weren't stupid. You knew the symptoms of a panic disorder oh too well. And you also knew that genetics were a huge factor with things like this. You could end up crazy. Just like her. So, when the physical symptoms started to become more and more debilitating, you worried more about becoming crazy, which only increased the anxiety. There was chest pain, difficulty breathing, sheer _panic_ and feeling like you were going to die, your head would spin, it sometimes got to the point of rocking back and forth, the textbook that had just fallen out of your lap lying haphazardly on the floor (later, you would also freak out about the pages being slightly bent and not in perfect condition).

But you didn't tell anyone. There were two reasons. One, you were still partly in denial. And you were terrified of what would happen if you told your dad. He'd rush you off to a psychologist, psychiatrist, psychopharmacologist, whatever. And you'd be analyzed and medicated and you'd be just like her. Round after round of different medications until something worked, or cognitive behavioral therapy until you could cope with it on your own, or both. You were terrified of that, and you didn't have the time for this shit with all of your homework. And, two, you didn't want to worry or upset your dad. He has enough on his mind with trying to help your mom, he didn't need another crazy person to deal with. Or, at least, that's how you saw it.

So, maybe you didn't get professional help. But you coped in your own way. You took Benadryl to induce the four hours of sleep you allowed yourself every night. (Unless you had a lot to study for, then the sleep could be reduced to two hours, or even nothing). You used caffeine pills and energy drinks and willpower to keep yourself awake and studying. And, in general, it worked. You were the perfect student. You were fucked up on the inside, but on the outside, no one would ever know. You felt like you were falling apart and losing control, but there was no one to notice or care. Your grades were great, you were on track to graduate early, and now if you could just get that damn piece down for your recital, everything would be fine...

Xanax. Extended release. So, it wouldn't get you high, and it wasn't abusing drugs. It was just something to calm you down a little so you could focus more on your school work and less on your family. And you would stop taking it as soon as you escaped and everything was less fucked up. It'd be fine.

Take 2-3 pills every morning, max daily dose 3mg. You weren't as fucked up as your mom, and you knew it was better to ease yourself onto medications...

You took one pill, put it in your mouth, and swallowed it down with a sip of Red Bull.

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_**To be continued. **_

**I'd love your feedback. Review please?  
**


	2. Chapter 2

As far as you were concerned, there were three drawbacks to the Xanax that you had stolen from your mom. Number one, it was an anti-anxiety. Meaning, it was a depressant. It was meant to calm you down. And while it did that very well, it caused you to become tired about an hour to two hours after taking it. Fanfuckingtastic. You did _not_, under any circumstances, have time for naps.

So, you made sure to always take your Xanax with a Red Bull and a caffeine pill or two. The logical part of your brain told you this was a bad idea. Very, very bad. You were sending conflicting signals to your brain and such. But it worked out pretty well, actually. The panic attacks, though not completely gone, were drastically reduced, yet you were still able to pull the all-nighters you needed to study. It all made sense to Insane Natalie, who was proud of you for putting your grades and your future above all else. Didn't the future matter more than the present anyway? Because in the blink of an eye the present would be the past and the future would be here and you'd be fine and sane and sitting under a tree at Yale.

Dad had taken you to visit once. Freshman year. Your mom was visiting your grandparents because...she was in one of her frightening as fuck stages. And everyone was so concerned for poor little Natalie, as if you hadn't grown up with this woman as your mother. As if you weren't used to all of her crazy behaviors. Really, by the time you were fourteen, an insane asylum would have felt homey and normal. Regardless, they all still had on their rose colored glasses telling them that you could be spared if she had a weekend with your grandparents and you had a weekend with your dad.

Dad...you loved him. He could drive you insane, but he was the closest thing you had ever and would ever have to "normal" parent. Sometimes, in a twisted way, you felt like you and your mom were two siblings competing for his attention. You felt bad for your dad most of the time. In fact, though you were ashamed to admit it, you felt as much pity towards him as you did love. He was essentially raising three challenging children. His dead son that only his wife could see, his wife, who you would argue was the most challenging of the three of you, and...you, the nerdy girl who just couldn't be good at anything except for school and piano.

Anyway, he had taken you to Yale. For a day, you felt normal and special and brilliant. You did all of the official campus tours and then spent some more time exploring on your own- just dad and you. You think it was healthy for him, too, to get away. He was smiling so much as the tour guide explained the housing system, as you walked up science hill and you made a joke about switching your major to a science so you could become a doctor and cure all diseases, as you stood in awe in the library and proudly read the Latin from the book on display, as you walked into one of the dining halls and declared that you felt like you were in Harry Potter. And it was all okay, just for a day. That was the day you completely decided on Yale. Yale or nothing. No back up school would be as amazing.

Dad would be proud when you were at Yale. You would be proud and happy and spend time with other sane people dedicated to their studies. Maybe, eventually, even your mom could appreciate the fact that the daughter she was barely aware of existing had made it into an Ivy League school. It would be great, you just had to get there. Panic attacks definitely did not help with the "getting there" part. They were a waste of time, in your mind. Which brought you to issue number two with Xanax. It didn't last 24 hours. Wasn't extended release supposed to last the whole 24 fucking hours? It wasn't asking that much was it? Yet, somehow, it only lasted twelve for you. Twelve hours of un-panicking bliss and twelve hours of pure panicking hell.

Your solution to this problem was developed six days after your first Xanax. It was simple. Double the dose. Two mg. The label said 1-2mg every morning, right? And 1mg lasted 12 hours, so maybe 2mg would last 24? It was still safe, obviously, if it was the suggested amount. You still weren't taking the maximum daily dose, so you viewed this as absolutely fine. No reason for concern. At all. Except for...issue number three was still bothering you.

What was issue number three? That damn extended release part. You knew it was a logical decision on the part of the psychiatrist or psychopharmacologist or whoever the hell had prescribed it. The ups and downs of fast acting anti-anxiety medications were definitely not a good idea for someone with bipolar disorder. Especially not when it was...your mom. But for you, it was just a pain in the ass. During the twelve hours that the Xanax had worn off and you were just shit of luck (a phrase you didn't used to use, but hey, what the hell?), what were you supposed to do if you had a panic attack? Panic attacks always came on so suddenly and Xanax didn't kick in right away.

Some Googling fixed this problem for you. Cut it in fourths, let it sit in your mouth for three to four seconds, then swallow, one person on a forum had said. It'd make the Xanax fast acting. You were reluctant to do this. But nine days after your first Xanax, at two thirty AM on Monday morning, when you had four tests in five and a half hours and you felt totally unprepared, you sighed out a "Fuck it" and grabbed the medicine bottle. You had had two Xanax (with the mandatory energy drink and caffeine pills) about twelve hours earlier, when you got home from school (you couldn't take them before school, because you absolutely could not be tired during class when you needed to be paying attention). But this didn't matter to you at the moment. What mattered were the tests and how the grades on the tests affected the grades in the class which affected your GPA which affected your chances of getting into Yale.

So, you used a knife to cut the pill into fourths and put them on your tongue. You closed your mouth and fought hard not to spit the pieces out. It was one of the nastiest tastes you had ever experienced, worse than both your mother's cooking and the PTC papers you had to try in AP Biology. You were _definitely_ a taster. And, finally, the four seconds was up, and you took several gulps of Red Bull, followed by several more as you popped two caffeine pills. Just to be sure. No sleeping tonight, just studying.

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**_To be continued. _**

**...And also, reviews are still pretty and make me do happy dances. _  
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	3. Chapter 3

It wasn't working. Or, at least, not like you wanted it too. It would give you maybe twelve hours of peace before the emotions, the pain, the everything was back. It still bothered you, even though you had come to terms with this drawback before. Where was the fucking numbness? You reveled in the completely numb feeling that overcame you when the medicine was at its highest point. The tiredness became a price you were willing to pay and it was worth it for those glorious moments of not giving a single fuck. You were numb, nothing hurt, nothing bothered you, you were tired and relaxed and sprawled out on your bed daydreaming with a smile on your face. And then, one of two things would happen. Either you would fall asleep, or you would take caffeine pills to make sure the falling asleep didn't happen. And the highest point of peace was gone. The numbness slowly faded. So where the fuck was this numbness your mom was always bitching about? You wanted it, you would fucking give a _limb_ for it. (Your left leg so you could still play the piano adequately.) Hell, maybe losing a limb would heighten your chances of getting into college.

It was when the numbness slipped away that your emotions came over you like waves. Vicious waves. Not the pleasant ones that you enjoyed playing in with your mom when you were young enough to view her as simply eccentric and fun and you would visit the beach together whenever the weather was warm enough. No, it was more like the huge waves that came out of nowhere and just kept coming one after another after another. They were so tall and violent and scary to you when you were little. You remembered one time in particular that it was especially bad. Lifeguards were warning people to evacuate the water for their own safety. Dad had called you and mom to get out of the water, and while you half scurried half swam to shore, your mom had stayed in place, screaming about how amazing it felt and how she wanted to swim farther away instead. Then, rain started pouring down like the sky had declared war on earth and was sending an army of raindrops. You were scared, and reached to grab your dad's hand, but he was already gone, running towards the water to get your mom. You were six. It was the day you realized that it wasn't just extra-youthfulness that made your mom different from everyone else's moms. There was something else there.

God, your mom. She was the source of an unhealthy amount of the emotions that flooded through you. Sometimes you were just so damn angry with her. How could she do this to you? How could she ignore you day after fucking day? People lost babies and children every goddamn day. It was sad, but true. And a majority of those people moved on, didn't they? It wasn't like she was alone. She had your dad, one of the best husbands anyone could ask for. Sometimes you believed in love only because of how much he had put up with from her and still thought, or appeared to think, at least, that she was the greatest being on this earth. And, even though she seemed to be oblivious to the fact, she had _you_. You were as close to perfect as a daughter could be, damn it. What more could she possible want from you in order for you to be worthy of a smile or a hug or some motherly comfort? You were the top of your class and graduating early, with the exception of that _one_ fucking piece, you were an excellent pianist. You had never really rebelled or given either of your parents any trouble. (Your dad had enough to deal with, and your mom probably wouldn't have noticed anyway). So, really, what the hell were you supposed to be doing that you weren't? What had your brother done in months that you hadn't don't in years? What made him so much better than you when he wasn't even there? How is a girl supposed to compete with _dead_ big brother? He could have been anything, had he lived, and your mother seemed to imagine him as everything. But you were still alive. You couldn't be everything, due to your mortality, and therefore, you were nothing.

You could spend hours raging about her if you allowed yourself too. Like, why wasn't she trying harder, huh? Why did everyone else have to _force _ her to keep trying? Your life wasn't a bunch of roses either, but at least you were still planning to escape to a future. What was so bad that she couldn't just go to the doctor and obey his fucking orders? God, she had a family who loved her. Dad loved her, _you_ loved her. Your grandparents loved her. She was surrounded by people who were more concerned about her health than she was. She was surrounded by people who would do _anything_ to make her feel better, and she didn't want any of it. You were so angry with her for viewing death as better than you. Sometimes when she was talking to you, times that should be celebrated because they didn't happen very often, she'd make a comment about how she wished she could just down the bottle and OD. And, what was her latest thing? No medicines at all. Just therapy. Which benefited you, since your found her unopened bottles, but it scared the shit out of you. What if she did something stupid?

Despite everything, you loved her. No matter what, even when she failed to fulfill the basic duties that came with the title, she was your mom. She was your mommy. She taught you how to drive in one of her more lucid moments, and except for hitting and killing your cat, it was one of your favorite memories. You weren't completely ignored. There were moments of light where you bonded and sometimes you forgot everything she had done to you, or reminded yourself that it was all unintentional and it wasn't her fault. And then you would feel extremely guilty for feeling such horrible things about her. You loved her and liked her disliked her and hated her all at once and it confused the hell out of you and left you feeling like the worst daughter on earth.

Your dad suddenly rushed into your room, without knocking. Usually, you'd throw a typical teenage hissy fit over this lack of respect for your privacy- one of the few teenage behaviors you indulged in. But he looked so pale and scared that you just shoved the bottle of Xanax into your pocket and asked him what was wrong.

"Your...mom..." he stuttered. "I just found her and the ambulance is on it's way, I'll call you when I know something-"

You jumped up from your bed, not caring that your books went flying and pages would be bent. "Wait, what? What happened? How bad is it? What did she do?" you fired off questions, watching his face grow more and more white, your worry increasing as the color in his face decreased.

He winced, as if he wasn't sure she wanted to share the information with you. Like you were a freshman again and you needed a weekend away from mom for your own good.

"Dad!" you screamed, then, taking into consideration his feelings a bit more, lowered your voice. "Daddy, what...happened?" You sounded like a five year old and you didn't care.

"She cut herself, Nat," he said as delicately as those words can possibly be said. "She tried killing herself. I don't know how bad it is, she's still breathing and-"

The sound of sirens interrupted him. They were coming. For your mom. To take her to the hospital.

"I've gotta go," Then, he turned and left, just like that day at the beach, running after your mom. But you were older now.

"Let me come with you!" you begged, running down the stairs after him.

"No." his answer was firm and you knew there was no use pleading because it wouldn't change. "I'll call you, Nat. I promise."

You watched as they took her away on the stretcher, EMTs all over her trying to do anything they could to extend her life. And then she was in the ambulance and the ambulance was driving and then it was out of sight and you were completely alone.

You were sixteen. It was the day you realized you were exactly like her. You ran upstairs and swallowed three Xanax. If it didn't work like you wanted it to, if the numbness wore off, you'd take another one or two. Overdosing wouldn't be that bad anyway.

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**_To be continued_**

**As always, feedback is appreciated. :)_  
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	4. Chapter 4

You didn't remember how many Xanax you had taken. Or when you had decided that was too many and moved on to the other medicines. You weren't sure how many different medicines you had tried or how many you had of each or exactly how stupid you had been. It was all a hazy swirl of colors and pill bottles and pills and more bottles and liquids and those itty bitty, especially hard to read when already drugged, cups for the liquids, and bed and crying at first and then numbness.

You had done it. Somewhere you had taken just enough or mixed just the right ones, because you had achieved completely numbness that lasted. So you stayed curled up in your bed, hugging that stupid teddy bear Henry had insisted on giving you just a few days ago, and you felt nothing. You wanted to cry, because that seemed like the appropriate reaction. You squeezed the bear tighter to your chest, your nails digging into his fluffy body, and still no tears. You squeezed your eyes and squinted and tried to think the worse thoughts you could- what if she died, what if she wasn't okay, what if you never saw her again- but they were all hazy and surreal and evoked no emotion. In some weird twist of fate, as soon as you had successfully achieved numbness, you wanted it gone. Because you wanted to cry, you felt the need to cry, but you felt nothing. Eventually, you fell asleep.

You slept through your dad's several phone calls. Later, you'd listen to them and feel the ever-so-familiar twinge of guilt in your heart for making his life even harder. Four calls. Four voice mails.

"Hey, Natalie...It's your dad. They're stitching up your mom's cuts right now." A laugh that somehow managed to express amusement, bitterness, and the desperate fight against tears, "Against her will, of course. She woke up in the ambulance. So they had to seda-" A pause. You could hear him swallow and sigh. His version of the headdesk. You could just imagine him rolling his eyes at his indiscretion, letting poor little Natalie know how fucked up life was. "She's gonna be okay, though, honey. Can you call me back as soon as possible? I'm sorry I had to leave you, but it was for the best. Just...call?"

"Nat, come on. Are you ignoring my calls? I'm your father, young lady. What could you possibly be doing that's more important than your mother's health? Your homework can wait. Are you with Henry? My god, Natalie, you need to get your priorities straight. Not everything is about you. The least you could do is answer my calls or return them. Hell, text me. You're always texting, right? This isn't funny. There will be repercussions. You need to grow up and start putting others before yourself."

"Natalie...Nat..." Remorseful sigh again, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to go off on you like that. I'm just under a lot of stress, okay? You're probably sleeping. That's good. I don't think you've been getting enough sleep lately. Give me a call when you wake up, honey. Your mom's fine, don't worry about that. I love you."

"Good morning, pumpkin." Overuse of pet names. He was feeling the need to comfort you. It almost made you smile. "Uh...it's early. Sorry I didn't make it home last night. There are some...things going on here, medical things, don't worry about it, it's just that I need to be here right now. I'm not sure when I'll get home." Silence for a bit, then quieter, "A call back would be great, Nat."

But you didn't listen to these until much later. No, you slept right through four calls. Four times your phone blasted Twinkle Twinkle Little Star (Henry's choice), and four times you did not so much as roll over away from the nightstand where the phone had been set.

It wasn't until you felt someone shaking you that you woke up. God, the shaking was so fucking intense. There must be an earthquake. Yes, that was definitely it. Oh, god there was an earthquake and you were going to die and it wasn't fair because you were way too young and—you took a break from your panic to open one eye—Henry. It wasn't an earthquake, it was fucking Henry, shaking you out of your perfectly happy nap. What the hell was wrong with him? You tried to voice this question, but what came out was a muffled "Whuu?" that hurt your throat.

And that was when you realized that your throat hurt like hell. And that this simile made sense, because your entire body ached and you felt like you were on fire. You definitely had a fever. You were congested, your chest ached in the way that wasn't anxiety, and—oh, now you were cold, not hot anymore. Your head was pounding, ears aching, you just felt like total _shit_. What the hell? You had been fine last night. Well, as fine as you ever were.

Henry looked concerned. "Nat? What are you doing? It's two in the afternoon and you're still in bed? I mean, I know it's the weekend, but this isn't...you. You look pale, are you sick?" He was talking one hundred miles an hour, his words and sentences all rolling together, no breathing until the end of his monologue, just like he always did when he was worried. It was sweet. _He_ was sweet.

"I'm always pale," you croaked out, feeling sicker by the second, "I'm a fucking albino."

"It's not funny. Jesus, you're sick." He finally noticed all of the bottles of medications laying haphazardly at various locations on your floor. Henry was sweet and loving and damn year perfect, but he wasn't always the brightest.

"What...did...you...do?" He asked slowly, picking up bottle after bottle and carefully reading each label before placing it on your nightstand. When he had put the last bottle on the nightstand, Henry picked up your cellphone.

"I tried calling," he explained, glancing at it, "Shit, Natalie, you have four missed calls from your dad. What the hell happened?"

"Mom tried killing herself." The words were spoken in a monotone voice, careful and even...and quickly followed by vomit. Henry jumped backwards out of instinct, then ran to your side, phone in hand, to rub your back.

"I...uh.." he stuttered, unsure of what to say. You couldn't blame him. You wouldn't know what to say if you were in his situation either. How exactly is one supposed to respond to "My mom just tried killing herself. Dad left me home alone so he could take care of her. As always. I took a bunch of drugs. Guess I'm sick now."? They should fucking teach _that_ in school, instead of pointless things like gym.

Henry took the hairband you always kept on your wrist off, (you mentally applauded him as this was dangerously close to your puke) and pulled your hair out of your face to the best of his ability. It was one sucky ponytail, but the intention was sweet. Next, he felt your forehead. If you had the energy, you'd jump away from the feeling of his ice cold hand.

"You're burning up.." he mumbled. "I'm gonna text your dad and t-"

"Just tell him I have a migraine."

Henry shook his head. "You need to go to the doctor, Natalie!"

"Tell. Him. It. Was. A. Migraine." you said through gritted teeth, then, more gently, "I'm fine, really."

He nodded reluctantly. "Fine. But I'm staying to make sure."

"Mhmm," You were too tired to argue with him. While he was distracted by his texting, you picked up a random bottle from the nightstand and took two of the pills from it with the water bottle Henry held out. You had no clue what you had just taken, and you really didn't care.

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**_To be continued_**

**Um...I feel like I totally butchered both Dan and Henry, and this chapter feels all unnaturally sucky. Thoughts? _  
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	5. Chapter 5

**Okay, a few notes on this one, sorry. **

**1. I apologize for how long this chapter has taken. **

**2. This chapter does NOT contain my opinion on marijuana, it contains what I perceive as the characters' opinions on it. **

**3. Dani, the wonderful Melchior to my Moritz has claimed Henry as he exists in this story as her own.  
**

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When you woke up again four hours later, Henry was gone. You were partially saddened by his departure, yet still somewhat relieved that he was gone so that you didn't have to put up any facade for the time being. Just...you.

Of course, you really didn't even know who the hell you were anymore.

Your dad still wasn't home. No big surprise there. He had called and left you a voice mail to feel better, said things were complicated but under control. Basically, he was treating you like a two year old and an adult at the same time. You needed to be shielded from the truth, but you could be left alone to take care of yourself. It confused you and made you angry at him, which you hated because you knew that he was the parent who actually knew of your existence, and you couldn't afford to have shunning between you and one of the few people who acknowledged you being alive.

You sighed and sat up, trying to ignore the way the room was spinning around you. There was homework to be done because it was either Saturday or Sunday and for whatever reason, you had given in to your impulsive side and gone out with Henry on Friday night. Shit. You had homework. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. And just like that the panic took precedence over the illness and the fact that your mom was in a hospital somewhere. All that mattered was your homework because you had to get into Yale and...Yale. There was no fucking chance you were going to Yale because you had fucked up your recital.

And then you were vomiting into the trashcan next to your bed, adding to the crumbled papers and shitload of used tissues. Whether it was the being sick or the panic attack or fear for your mom, or some mixture thereof you weren't sure, but it didn't really matter. You puked and you puked until there was nothing left in your stomach and it was just dry heaving and sobbing and blowing your one chance to escape.

You didn't bother brushing your teeth or doing anything about the utter grossness of the garbage can that would usually piss off your OCD tendencies. You just reached for the phone and miraculously managed to dial Henry's number through tears. If you were thinking clearly, you could have just hit the number two, but you weren't thinking clearly. You were tired of thinking and tired of breathing and you just wanted a way out, and suddenly everything your mom had ever done made perfect sense, which scared you even more.

"Hey! Nat!" You could just hear the smile in his voice, but all it did was make you cry harder. "So...I guess I shouldn't bother asking if you're feeling any better, then."

You hated crying at all. You hated crying in front of people even more. And worst of all, to you, was crying to someone over the phone, where every breath and sniffle and sob was exaggerated because it was all they were listening to. So, you hated the sob that escaped.

"What happened? Is it something with your mom? Look, I'm sure she'll be-" He was an expert. Cheerful to supportive panic in the blink of an eye. It was a miracle he hadn't been swept away by some blonde, big breasted cheerleader a long time ago.

Your sob, unfortunately, ruined his perfect comfort. "I'm not getting into Yale." you blubbered, squeezing that damn teddy bear as if it would do you any good. "I fucked up my piece and now I'm not getting into Yale and," you paused, unable to breathe or speak until you let out another stupid sob, "and now I can't escape. Now I'll be stuck here forever and no college will want me all because I fucked up and..." You couldn't possibly continue. It was too painful to think, let alone speak aloud. You just cried and listened to Henry saying god knows what, but it sounded calming, whatever it was.

You tuned back into the conversation just in time to here his "I'll be right there." You hung up the phone, pulled the covers over your head, and cried into your teddy bear, hoping Henry would hurry.

Twenty minutes of crying later, you felt someone sitting down on your bed and the covers were lifted. Henry...and a bong. You groaned. Of course he brought a fucking bong with him.

"No, no, no. No groaning. Okay, look at it from your smarty pants point of view."

You were too tired to argue that you were not a smarty pants, your future now consisted of asking people if they wanted fries with their burgers, if you were lucky enough to win that job.

"A little pot never hurt anybody, right? Not _actually_ harmful to the human body. And it's used all the time for medical purposes so it can't be bad!"

"That's not how it works." you mumbled from behind your teddy bear's face.

"How it works," Henry argued as he picked up your trash can and moved it to the hallway so that your room wouldn't smell quite so bad, "is that _you_ are panicked and _this_ will calm you down."

"Henry." You shifted to a sitting position, but didn't let go of your stuffed animal you cared much too much about. "It's illegal."

"It's a hell of a lot safer than downing a random combination of your mom's pills."

That shut you up.

"Yeah," he continued, "Not an idiot. I checked the labels. Just give it a chance. It's not always the answer but once in a while..."

In a monotone voice, you brought up your main argument. "I don't put anything that's on fire in my mouth."

"But you'll put dangerous medications in your mouth?"

"Shut _up._"

"Just once. For me? I'll teach you how, then you calm down and I'll clean up your room the way you like it."

The fact that anyone, especially a..._boyfriend_ knew how you liked your room terrified you. What if he was to get up tomorrow and decide he didn't want to deal with the crazy girl anymore? You were becoming to attached to him. This had to stop.

"This is so fucked up." you mumbled.

But you took the bong from his hand, nontheless.

"Hey, hey, hey," He took it back. "You don't even know what you're doing, Miss Goody Two Shoes."

"I'm not an idiot."

"When it comes to my friend Mary Jane, you are."

"Witty. Really."

He rolled his eyes at your unappreciative attitude towards his brilliance. "Okay, so first you light it," he instructed as he did so, "Then put your mouth on it and breathe in. It'll burn. Hold if for a few seconds. Then breathe out. I'll light it for you, okay?"

You nodded and took it from him, your heart racing. You wrapped your lips around it and took a breath in, almost like that time you were on an inhaler for bronchitis, held it as Henry instructed you too, then breathed out. You choked a bit, but didn't feel the burning sensation he had warned you about. Frowning, you turned to see him laughing.

"What?" you asked, offended that he thought this was funny.

"You're not giving it a fucking blowjob, Nat, no need to wrap your mouth around it." He laughed even harder, "Just barely have your lips touch it and focus on breathing _in_. We'll try again."

He lit it once again, and you followed his instructions.

Only, this time, you felt the burning sensation. You _really_ felt it.

Henry nodded, proud of his student. "_That_ was a good hit."

You weren't sure how to feel. Ashamed? Proud of your rebellion? You weren't even sure if you _liked_ it, but you did it again and again, regardless, and eventually, whether by placebo affect or the amount of hits you had taken, you did feel calm.

Calm enough to start laughing for no apparent reason and say completely inappropriate things. Henry shook his head, amused, and took the bong away from you.

"NOOOO. DON'T TAKE AWAY PETER!"

Henry couldn't help but laugh. "Honey, Peter's all out of magic fairy dust. No more flying." He carefully placed the bong back into his bag.

This upset you greatly, but you laughed as you shouted "NO! PETER, YOU CAN DO IT. GO TO NEVERLAND. YOU'LL BE SAFE. I'LL COME SEE YOU."

"Mhmm." Henry sat down with you and gently pushed you back to lying down. "He'll be waiting for you Wendy."

"GOOD."

You closed your eyes and relaxed, occasionally opening them, giggling and commenting on Henry's ass as he cleaned for the next hour. Then, out of nowhere...

"I'd never let Peter near my kids. He's a fucking kidnapper. That's what he is. Wendy should've watched her daughter more carefully."

"Of course she should have." Henry said, finishing his cleaning and joining you on the bed. You lifted the covers and welcomed him to lie down next to you. He seemed to consider for an unusually long amount of time before he finally nodded and joined you.

As you snuggled closer to him, half asleep you mumbled, "Why haven't we had sex? Am I not sexy?" but you weren't awake long enough to hear the answer.

* * *

_*sings* First of all we need revieeeeeews..._

**They are really nice. Especially when I'm panicked about making everyone out of character and such.**

And, as always,

**_To be continued..._**


	6. Chapter 6

**_A few things before this chapter begins. _**

**_1. Please do not kill me. I LOVE Dan, really, I do, but we all know Natalie was not pleased and this is from her point of view. _**

**_2. Henry still belongs to my Dani. _**

**_3. Sorry this is shorter than normal and was delayed. I was in the ER last night. Fun stuff. _**

* * *

You woke up with Henry still snuggled against you. Though you had always prided yourself on being independent, you had to admit that it was a pretty damn good feeling. So, you closed your eyes and pretended to be asleep and stayed exactly where you were for the seventeen more minutes before he woke up.

Henry opened his eyes and gave you a lazy smile. "What time is it?"

"Dunno," you mumbled, reluctantly rolling over to see the clock. The blue light of the background seemed blinding to your recently opened eyes. "Eight o'clock," you answered, then rolled right back to your original position.

Your answer apparently wasn't good enough for Henry, though.

"AM or PM?" he asked, completely clueless as to whether it was day or night. And to be honest, you didn't know either.

"Well," you said, glancing out the window on the opposite wall, "It's dark out, so I'd say PM."

Henry opened his mouth to respond to this, but just as he did, you heard the front door to the house open. Your dad was home. He had to have news, right? He was home!

…And there was a boy in your bed. Shit. You looked over to Henry, whose face looked as horrified as you felt. He scanned the room, trying to figure out what to do, but thinking on his feet was never really one of Henry's strong suits.

"Closet," you whispered.

Like an obedient puppy dog, he jumped out of the bed and ran to the closet, quickly shutting himself inside. You hurried to make the bed, and then ran down the stairs, taking them two at a time. He had information about mom, he had information about mom, he had—

You bumped directly into him. A second ago, you were fully prepared to apologize for missing his calls, explain that you weren't feeling well, and ask for information on your mom. But as you stared at his chest and felt the pain of your head smacking against it, the mumbled "Christ, Nat, watch where you're going," from him, all of the anger returned. Mood swings. Supposedly normal for teenage girls, but you hated them.

The "Dad! Why didn't you take me with you?" was out of your mouth before you could really think it over. But, in your defense, you _had_ begged and pleaded with him to take you, and god damn it, you were _not_ a child anymore! You were sixteen and mature for your age, you could handle going with him.

"We don't see much of you these days," he responded.

Where the _hell_ had that come from? You had always been reclusive, always hiding in your room, or the library, or somewhere quiet. And suddenly he had a problem with it? Suddenly you being a good student was the reason you weren't allowed to see your mom? You knew he was hurting, but this was ridiculous. And then, he made it even worse with his question:

"Is this…_Henry_ a good influence?"

You glared at him. You rarely spoke back, partly because you didn't want to bother him and partly because you rarely interacted with your family (okay, point for dad on that one), but Henry was the _one_ good thing in your life right now and no one would get away with saying otherwise. So, you said it.

"Like, compared to _what_?" you asked pointedly, knowing it would hurt, but feeling it was necessary.

Your dad chuckled, relieving your guilt, "Okay, that's fair," he admitted, turning around and leading you to the living room. You both took a seat on the couch, awkwardly turning so that you were facing each other. He had that look….something was wrong. Not terribly wrong, but wrong enough to cause worry. You had learned to read your dad's face when it came to Mom News. Finally he spoke.

"Your mother is in for a new treatment." He paused for a bit. You stared at him expectantly. " ECT."

You stared at him blankly. People may call you a genius, but you really didn't consider yourself that smart and you definitely didn't know everything.

"Okay...LMNOP…What is that?" you asked, "I don't know." You hated saying those words, admitting defeat. And you were anxious and impatient and nervous about your mom, so your mood wasn't the greatest.

When he broke eye contact, you know you wouldn't be pleased with the explanation. "Electroconvulsive therapy," dad said to the cushion between you, "Shock therapy."

No. _No_. They were not going to shock your mom's brain. That only happened in horror stories and experiments from Freud's time! You wouldn't let them. You _wouldn't._

"You're kidding, right?" He didn't look up from the couch cushion separating you. "Dad!" you screeched, desperate and scared and cursing your inability to influence these types of things, "That's bullshit!"

"Language!" Dad scolded, but he still wasn't looking at you. That fucking coward. You hated him at this moment. You hated him so much for letting them do this to her. He could have said no. You _knew_ he could have said no.

You jumped from your seat with a burst of anger and continued screaming at him, "It's _bullshit!_ She _trusts_ you!"

She may not always be the best decision maker or the best wife or mom, but you would defend your mother to the death. And she had decided to spend the rest of her life with your dad, kept that decision in her lucid moments, _knowing _he'd be responsible for things like this and _trusting_ him to make the right decision. This was _not_ the right fucking decision.

"Natalie," His voice was half-stern, half 'please calm down, I'm too tired for this right now'. But you didn't care. You didn't care that he was tired or that he was in pain and struggling and scared too. You turned away from him and ran back up the stairs, back to your room, back to Henry. You just had to get to Henry.

* * *

As always,

**_To be continued..._**


	7. Chapter 7

_**A/N: I'm not going to bore you with details, but my life and I are in a battle. So, sorry about the huge gap between updates, hopefully that won't happen again. I'm also paranoid about this chapter totally and completely sucking, so sorry about that too. Um...**_

* * *

As soon as he heard the sound of your bedroom door slamming shut behind you, Henry stepped out of the closet. When he saw your face, he ran to give you a hug. Sometimes you hated yourself for how much one of Henry's hugs could really fix. He rubbed your back as you rested your head on his shoulder and cried into his neck. He knew better than to ask questions right now; he knew _you_.

"Shhh, it'll be okay," he reassured you, without even knowing what was going on, "You're fine. It's fine, I've got you."

It was ridiculous, really, but it helped. Someone in this world cared about you more than your dead brother or crazy mom. Someone noticed you and could read your emotions and knew just what to say. Someone would be upset if you were to just disappear one day with no explanation. After growing up with the belief that no one did, finding the someone who always did was an amazing experience. But some things were too fucked up. Some things even Henry couldn't fix.

You carefully detached yourself from Henry's arms and sat down on your bed. He was quick to follow, sitting close enough to you that his shoulders were centimeters away from touching yours. He didn't push for an explanation. In fact, he didn't say anything. He simply sat there for five minutes while you aggressively wiped tears from your eyes and attempted to regulate your breathing. You needed to tell him. Now. But for some reason it took your brain and mouth another few moments of silence before they cooperated.

"They're giving my mom a new treatment," you managed in a monotone voice.

Henry looked confused as to why this had caused such an emotional reaction from you. "That's good….isn't it?"

Your next words were sobbed out and barely coherent. "Shock therapy."

"Wha—They still do that?" Apparently your sobbing was coherent enough for Henry to understand. He wrapped an arm around you and pulled you closer.

The tears came harder and faster as you imagined your mom lying unconscious in a hospital bed with monitors hooked up to her and cords coming from her brain and waves of electricity being repeatedly sent into her already fragile brain. It was too much to handle. Henry gently tugged your body and rearranged you so that you were lying down with your head in his lap and he was calmly stroking your hair.

"They're going to shock her brain. Sh-she trusts him and he's fucking letting them do this to her. It's fucked up." You blubbered out, spilling tears onto Henry's pants.

"Maybe it'll help, though." He always had a positive response. Sometimes you loved it and sometimes you hated it. Right now, you didn't want to hear positive things. You wanted him to scream with you about how unfair all of this was, not offer you a silver lining. You needed to get out of this nightmare.

Only, you weren't dreaming; you couldn't wake up and have it all go away. So, you did what seemed like the next best thing. If reality was going to be a bitch, you would just have to block it out. You jumped up from Henry's lap.

His mouth opened to question your sudden movement as you ran to your dresser and pulled out the most revealing outfit you had: a lacy black spaghetti strap top and a miniskirt that was blood red with a thin layer of black lace over it.

You didn't let Henry ask any questions. Instead, you changed into this new outfit and slipped on high heeled black shoes right in front of him, allowing him to see more of you than he ever had before, and not caring a bit about it at the moment.

"Let's go out," you said, running a brush quickly through your hair and plastering on the makeup you rarely used. The image in the mirror barely resembled you. Thank god.

Henry slowly stood up and walked over to you. "I'm sorry, what did you just say?" he asked, struggling to keep his eyes on your face. Points to him for not blatantly staring at your cleavage.

You grabbed some money and shoved it into his pocket, hoping it would be enough to get you in somewhere. How much did it cost to go to a club, anyway? And… where exactly were they? Spontaneity had never been your best friend. No thinking ahead, you scolded yourself. All that mattered was getting out of here and away from this house.

"Let's go out!" you repeated. You grabbed Henry's arm and dragged him into the hallway, continuing your sorry excuse of an explanation as you made your way past your dad's bedroom and down the stairs, "Let's go to some club and dance and forget about all of this and hey, do you know a place that will give us drinks, because that'd be great."

You had no idea where all of this talk was coming from. All you knew was that you needed to feel alive and like a normal, rebellious teenage girl instead of the genius freak and you needed to feel _something_ other than panic and stress over your mom and damn it, you needed out of that horrid house.

"Nat…" Henry bit his lip, "I'm not sure this is such a great idea. You just found out about your mom and if you were thinking clearly, you would _not_ be asking me to take you somewhere like—"

You rolled your eyes, frustrated with his over-protectiveness. Why did everyone treat you like such a child? Like they had to walk on glass around you? Life sucks. You had gotten that message a long time ago. You just wanted one night to forget about how much life sucked. Was that really too much to ask?

"I'm going with or without you," you said firmly, opening the door and walking out of the house.

There was a moment of silence as you made your way down the driveway and to the car, then the sound of Henry running to catch up with you.

* * *

_**Love it? Hate it? Want me to abandon it? Want me to continue it? Lemme know in a review!**_


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